


Attachment

by ThroughtheMirrorDarkly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Mild Humor, Psychology, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 23:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17109995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly/pseuds/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly
Summary: Sherlock Holmes always been good at pushing her buttons.Evelyn Masters decides to return the favor.The results startle them both, and leaves their friendship in uncharted territory.(ONE SHOT)





	Attachment

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing from BBC Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes in general. This is for pure amusement only, and to hone my writing skills.

“Attachment” 

By ThroughtheMirrorDarkly

* * *

The college classroom was filled with an assortment of people, from young adults to people in their earlier thirties that chatted amongst themselves until the bell rung signaling that class was in session. Professor Evelyn Masters was a mild manners woman, with blond curls that hung loosely down around her shoulders. Slim black framed glasses outlined her light green eyes with flecks of hazel in them, and her sapphire button up shirt was a striking contrast against her smooth milky skin. Her pixie nose and cheeks were rosy, due to the nippy air outside where winter had laid claim to all of London. She was a bit younger than the other Professors at this college, given that she was only twenty seven years of age. It was sometimes a hassle to get her student to treat her seriously since they saw her as “one of them” due to her youth, but that usually changed after she gave them their syllabus. Then they did not regard her in such a pleasant light. 

Evelyn walked towards the chalkboard, her heels clicked sharply off of the wooden floors. “Today we will be focusing on how to tell the differences between these three things,” she spoke, her voice echoing throughout the room. She drew the piece of chalk against the green board, and wrote out three words. 

_Narcissist._

_Psychopath._

_Sociopath._

“A lot of people use these terms as if they were synonyms or interchangeable, but that is not the case. While these three may overlap, they have key factors in which make them fundamentally different,” Evelyn stated, setting the piece of chalk down and dusted off her hands. Walking around to the front of her desk, she leaned back against it and folded her arms around her chest. “Does anyone want to hazard a guess, or…yes, Linda?” She called upon the young woman in the front. 

Linda twirled her pen between her fingers. “You say the three things are different, but aren’t all psychopaths narcissistic?” 

“That is a good question. Do you the saying that all thumbs are fingers, but not all fingers are thumbs?” She responded, head cocked to the side. When Linda nodded, she continued with a small smile, “That would be a similar case here. While all psychopaths are narcissists, not all narcissists are automatically psychotic. Let’s start with the narcissist…” She trailed off, when the door to her classroom and a familiar face stepped through. 

Sherlock Holmes was unmistakable. There wasn’t a person quite like him that she had ever encountered, in looks and in personality. He wasn’t what was considered typically handsome, yet there was a refinement to his features that compelled a person to take another glance. Cheekbones so sharp that they could have been carved out of marble, and intense stormy blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing and a mind so keen and astounding how it unraveled the world around him. Lips that held a bit of mischief when he caught her gaze and Evelyn smoothly look away. 

“Let’s start with the narcissist, shall we? Narcissism is a personality disorder, a disorder of self-esteem. A narcissist is someone who lacks empathy, and is very grandiose while also seeking constant validation. However, that is not to say that a narcissist is incapable of all feelings. In fact, when a narcissist does a bad thing, they are capable of feeling a fair amount of culpability and shame, though it has been studied that the shame is what they feel the most. Can anyone take an educated guess as to why that is?” Evelyn asked, her eyes scouring the students. She ignored the burning stare on the side of her face, and felt her cheek muscle twitch despite herself. “Yes, Steve?” 

Steve shifted forward, pushing his glass up his nose. “Uh, well, you said that a narcissist seeks validation, right? So if they did something bad and were ashamed of it, would it because it would hurt their reputation?” He asked, uncertainly. 

“Are you asking, or telling?” 

“Telling,” Steve said, ducking his head. 

Evelyn smiled, slightly. “You are correct. A narcissist takes their appearance, how they are perceived very seriously. The reason that shame would trouble a narcissist more than guilt would is because it stems from the fear and concern of how others perceive them.” 

“How does a psychopath differ?” One brave soul asked. 

“While a zebra and horse have much in common, they are two different kinds of animals. The same can be applied to the subject of psychopath versus narcissist. A psychopath is a narcissist and all that narcissism entails, except they feel no guilt and no shame. They don’t feel remorse if they do something bad, or harmful to someone else. That’s what makes them great serial killers, assassins and criminals because they don’t care who gets hurt,” Evelyn explained, with arms folded over her chest. A great shadow swept across her face, and she could feel the scar tissue from the old wound twinge along her collarbone. “Now, the differences between a psychopath and sociopath—this is where the water gets a bit more murky, because if you listen to social media or literature, a great deal of people use these terms as if they were the exact same thing. Or they mistake what is a psychopath for a sociopath, or vice versa. 

"Sociopath is like a psychopath, they do bad things and they don’t care.” Evelyn passed her gaze over the Consulting Detective who had claimed a seat by Steve. The poor boy looked like he was sweating bullets, and given the great Sherlock Holmes’ reputation, she didn’t blame him one bit. The man had been called everything from a hero to a madman since the start of his career, and even was called a fraud thanks to the machinations of James Moriarty until he was proven innocent. Of course, that happened after his “death”. She was glad that he was back from that excursion; it lifted the weight of such a secret off of her shoulders. “Here’s the key difference: a psychopath is born and sociopath is made. The psychopath has been called an anti-social personality disorder. Psychopaths are believed to have a slightly different autonomic nervous system than the average person. Can anyone explain to me what the autonomic nervous system is? Yes, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock dropped his raised hand, a flicker amusement in his gaze. “The autonomic nervous system is what holds our sympathetic nervous system—the area where the flight or fight response comes from. When a person breaks a rule, or does something embarrassing or rude, it causes the heart to start to race. Pupils dilate, perspirations breaks out, all because the fear of consequences,” he explained, in his deep sonorous voice. His words always held a hint of haste, like a computer rattling off a code as fast as it could process it. 

Evelyn looked at him, impressed. “Someone has been studying.” 

A bit of laughter in good humor scattered across the room, and Sherlock sat forward in his seat. “A credit to such a fine written analysis, your studies into the autonomic system deserve more praise than they have gotten,” Sherlock commented, with a flick of his fingers. 

_Oh, dear, flattery. He must want quite the favor if he is going out of his way to butter me up, and in front of an audience, too,_ Evelyn thought, the corner of her mouth curled into a smile. _I bet it has something to do with John or Mycroft._

“Why thank you.” She dipped her head forward in acknowledgement of the praise, accepting the warmth that filled her from it. It wasn’t often that she got a compliment from Sherlock, even if he had his own reason for doing so. “Now, a psychopath doesn’t have the same response as a normal person would to pressure or fear. Even if they had a dead body in the truck and got pulled over by the cops, psychopaths wouldn’t feel the panicked feelings as a normal person who did something wrong would.” 

“They wouldn’t feel the need to run or get away if they murdered someone?” A student asked, far from the back row. 

“No, they wouldn’t. That’s not to say they wouldn’t mind getting caught, but simply stating that they don’t fear it. If they flee it would be a cold and logical that has no emotion behind it,” Evelyn responded, with her hands clasped loosely in front of her. “In fact, they might even see it as a challenge to escape the police. They might even take pride it in, as a great number of serial killers have in the past. A fine example of that would be Jack the Ripper. 

“We will be studying further on how a psychopath’s brain is wired differently next week, with footage and studies done with PET scans, but for now let’s speak on sociopaths. A sociopath is made, meaning it is a person that grows up doing things in order to survive. This is a constant way of life for them, and while they might have once had an emotional reaction, they are eventually trained in some way to learn to subdue their natural fight or flight instincts. And—” The bell rang singling the end of the class. As students hurried packed up their notebooks and books, Evelyn called out, “I want a comprehensive essay done by Friday on the key differences between a narcissist, psychopath, and a sociopath. I want you do more research on your own time to make your own observations, so don’t just use what we’ve talked about in class and write it back at me. Put effort into it, or I won’t be giving you a very kind grade.” 

There were a few groans, and mutters, but that was all the complaints given. 

When the last student filed out, Evelyn turned to Sherlock with an expectant look on her features with one brow arched sharply. “I’m warning you now, if this has anything to do with your brother then you are out of luck. Every time I am stuck in a room with Mycroft for more than five, the more I feel like he is going to pull out a contract and demand my soul,” she told him, gesturing for him to follow her to her office so they could speak in a more private setting. She held the door open and allowed him to enter before closing it behind them, and she glanced at him from head to toe, making note that he looked healthy. It was all John’s doing that, keeping him feed and hydrated while also keeping him occupied in case old, bad habits decided to come calling. John Waston was a godsend in Sherlock Holmes’ life, and the Consulting Detective must have done something exceedingly generous in another life to end up with such an amazing friend. 

“It actually has to do with John and his wedding.” 

“Having doubts about the bride to be?” Evelyn questioned. Sherlock was notoriously territorial even if he didn’t realize it, and one of her greatest worries was that he would wedge himself between the happy couple. Instead, he seemed quite pleased with John’s pick in life partner. However, Sherlock’s moods changed every other day, and he could make a mountain out of a molehill if he so chose to. 

“No. John made me his best man.” 

“Oh? You are his best friend. Is that not what you expected?” 

A look of pure frustration and bemusement twisted across Sherlock’s features, as he pulled his gloves off of his hands and stuffed them with more force than necessary into his jacket pocket. “No. It was not expected,” the Consulting Detective stated, with a heavy breath. “I think many can attest to the fact that I would make a poor best man—my brother at the top of list.” 

“And I can think of several others who would say there couldn’t be a better choice,” Evelyn retorted, sinking down into her office chair. “But you didn’t come here to talk about your best man woes. At least, not in the aspect that you were chosen to be a best man, but something else related to being a best man. If I were to be so bold to hazard a guess, I’m guessing you are worried about your speech.” 

“Your mind is…” He elevated his chin, looking down at his nose and regarded her with reluctant astonishment mixed in with thinly veiled disappointment. He pointed an accusing finger at her, shaking it ever so slightly. “You are _wasted_ behind a desk and in front of a classroom.” 

“Two compliments in one day. My, my, Sherlock, are you growing soft?” She teased, flashing him her pearly whites. She could count a handful of times that she disappointed him by not being more adventurous. If he had his way, she honestly believed she would be a secondary John Waston, scrambling after him on cases when his best friend was not available. Maybe at one time, she could have rushed into danger head first, but that was no longer the case. She had too many fears now, and all of them ran deep into her soul. 

“I only state the facts as I see them,” Sherlock replied, tersely. “Your observation is correct. I have been made aware that I will be required to give a speech about the lovely couple. I know that it expected to give a speech with humor, sappiness, and genuine warmth—none of which I am good at, so I came to you. You know all about those pesky human emotions more than anyone else.” 

“Mycroft knows about writing letters like that, given the way he has to placate people in parliament and the entire headache that goes along with that. Why not ask him to help you write a best man speech?” Evelyn asked, just using his brother to get a rise out of Sherlock. 

It works. 

Sherlock’s cheeks puff out with a hard breath at the mention of his brother, and the look he gives her is utterly scathing in a way that makes her have to bite back the smile that threatens to spread across her cheeks from ear to ear. “I already swallowed my pride and asked. You can imagine the reaction.” 

“Oh,” Evelyn doesn’t want to smile anymore. Mycroft Holmes cared deeply for his family, but he had a funny way of showing it. He didn’t like attachments, saw people as little more than goldfish and treated sentiment like it was deadly disease. She could imagine that he would have likely taunted Sherlock than actually given him the time of day since friendship and connections were “beneath” him. “Well, I guess it’s nice being second choice,” she quipped, trying to lighten the mood. “Just what are you expecting from my help, Sherlock?” 

“I just want you to write a best man speech that John will want to hear.” 

“If I gave John exactly what he would want to hear then he would definitely know that it didn’t come from you,” Evelyn said, with a chuckle. At the vicious glower she received, she held up her hands in silent surrender. “Alright, look. I’ll help you with your best man speech, but the words and feelings in it have to be genuinely from you. I can help you sort out what you want or mean to say, but John wants Sherlock Holmes to give that speech, not a third party proxy to write sweet words. He wants his best friend’s words; otherwise he would have chosen Greg to be his best friend if he wanted a for sure sweet and nice best man speech.” 

Sherlock’s face scrunched up, in confusion. “Who is Greg?” 

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Lestrade.” 

“Ah.” 

“I wouldn’t stress, Sherlock. It is a bit daunting, all weddings and parties and speeches are, but you’ve always managed to know what to say when it is most important. Or at least, that’s my experience with you,” Evelyn replied, with a half-smile. “Even if you stumble a few times getting your point across, the best of you usually wins out and on John’s wedding day, I have no doubt that you will validate all the faith John has in you as his best man.” 

His eyes dart away from her, and she thinks she sees a bit of color rise into his cheeks. She stares almost transfixed when she realizes that she has embarrassed the great Sherlock Holmes, and feels a rush of delight bubble up in her throat. She stifled with a light cough, and flipped a hand idly through her lesson planner. “So if that’s all, we can schedule a time for us to work on that?” 

Sherlock stood there, a slight shift in his posture. It was barely noticeable and she would have missed it if she had not been looking. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, and finally he turned towards her. His face was a careful and blank expression, and he said, “I thought you would also like to know that John Woodley will be spending the rest of his years behind bars. From what I have gathered from the court information given out to the public—and what I have discovered from other sources—is that he has no chance of parole, so you should not have to fear any longer. He will not ever see the light of day again.” 

Her heart shriveled up inside of her chest at the name John Woodley, and she felt black spot dance in front of her vision. A phantom burning spread across her collarbone and she reached up, feeling the scarring beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. The sadistic gleam in his eyes as he drove the knife in her flesh while red seeped out staining the wedding dress was engraved into her mind, playing on a loop when she was alone and tired. Her older brother, Martin, who had an increasing amount of debt gambling decided to quite literally sell her to the highest bidder, which happened to be a sick man by the John Woodley who had been widowed a number of times. Evelyn had finally gone to Sherlock when it became apparent that John Woodley would not back off and see that she wasn’t property to be bought. 

It had ended up with her beaten and kidnapped, forced to be dressed in an old wedding gown—his first wife’s wedding gown who had left him for another man—and with a crackpot of priest ready to marry them even though it was clear that she was an unwilling participant in all of this. In ended with the police burst down the door of the old and quaint church, and John Woodley stabbing her because if he couldn’t have her then no one would could. The entire time he had been calling her “Brenda”, the name of his first wife to no one’s great surprise. It had been harrowing and difficult to get through such a traumatic experience. With all her degrees in psychology, a person would assume that she would be able to fix herself in no time. 

She just couldn’t. The nightmares lingered. She could still smell his horrid breath while her back was pressed against the flagstone, and the knife bit through her skin, tearing through muscle and scraping painfully against bone. And she clenched her eyes closed against the assault of those images, feeling bile rush up the back of her throat. “That’s…” She cleared her throat, roughly. “That’s good. It’s better than he deserves.” 

“Have you seen a therapist for your PTSD?” He inquired, indolently. “Or have you foolish chosen to diagnosis yourself? Haven’t you heard the joke that the psychologist that diagnosis themselves has a madman for a patient?” 

“It’s actually the lawyer that represents himself has an idiot for a client,” Evelyn corrected, snappishly. He always enjoyed poking her buttons, which she supposed was fair given that she repaid him in kind. “And I don’t think the person who uses “highly functioning sociopath” as way to drive people away, should have a say in how I handle my own issues, thank you very much.” 

“I _am_ a highly functioning sociopath.” 

“You’re not a sociopath or psychopath, Sherlock,” Evelyn stated, giving him a deadpanned stare. “You do enjoy tormenting the PCPD with the notion, but I’ve studied psychology since I was a teenager, and you do not fit either of those types.” 

“Oh?” His charcoal brow rose in silent challenge. “And what would you diagnosis me with, Evelyn Masters PhD?” 

Evelyn bit back a sigh, setting her lesson planner on the desk. She pulled her glasses off of her face, and set them down on her desk before she turned to face the man who towered over her. “Asperger’s Syndrome is a high functioning type of ASD. People with this condition are just as smart as other people, just have trouble with social cues. They also can become obsessive on one topic or perform the same behaviors in repetition,” she explained, her voice gentle and quiet. There was no judgment in her expression, and she saw the slight tick of his jaw. “Children with this condition exhibit signs when they are young. Not smiling when happy or speaking in a flat, robotic way are among some of the signs. It is widely believed by many neuroscientists believe that many notable geniuses throughout the years, including Einstein had this condition.” 

Sherlock snorted. He turned away from her, proceeding to pace the length of the floor of her tiny office. He hadn’t ran completely out of the door nor had he dismissed her conclusion as tripe, so that gave her the confidence to continue onward. “Children with autism can be taught early on to learn how to pick up on social cues, help with maintaining eye contact, and a lot of these trials show great success in helping children to cope with this condition. I am assuming that’s what your parents did for you,” Evelyn stated, brushing a strand of hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear nervously. “They helped you take what most people see as a disadvantage and turn into an advantage. Your ability to see patterns, to see the world with this perspective that others can’t, it still made you an outcast even when your family did everything to try to make you fit in. Eventually, you got tired of trying to fit in and decided to drive people away.” 

“Enough,” he spoke, his voice sharp and biting. 

“That’s why you call yourself a highly functioning sociopath,” Evelyn continued, nerves fluttering inside of her belly. He strode towards her until he loomed over her personal space, a quiet attempt at intimidation. A determination filled her lungs and she rose out her seat, not simply letting this go because it upset him. He shouldn’t have issued such a challenge if he didn’t want the answer, and maybe…maybe some part of her wanted him to stop playing at being a monster. It upset her that he felt the need to build this wall up, and after five years of helping and working with him, maybe she just wanted to be let in. She helped this man fake his death, and helped give him psychological profiles on a number of Moriarty’s men, but she still felt like he held her at distance. 

It was maddening, and maybe she wanted him to feel a little bit like that, too. “It’s a good way to drive people away, you know? It’s a good security blanket, a good defensive mechanism. Why let someone get the chance to get close when they won’t understand? When they will only disappoint you? So scare them away before they get the—” 

Sherlock moved like lightning, he grasped her face between his hands, pulling her towards him until his mouth sealed over hers. It was a sharp burst of passion, intense and unexpected as his lips brushed across hers with a startling expertise. It was by no means a gentle kiss, almost punishing with its intensity and she felt herself melt into it, responding to it in earnest. Heat simmered in her veins and she caught a whimper in the back of her throat when he pulled his mouth away. A stuttering breath rushed through her, her hands reached up on instinct to grasp at his arms to keep herself steady. 

For a moment, everything was still. It was like being forced to remain motionless in the wake of a gravitational shift, and Evelyn’s whole world had been swallowed up by a pair of blue eyes that stared back into hers like she was nothing that he had ever seen before. Her heart galloped in her chest, wild and rampant while her lips clumsily tried to form words. “Why did you kiss me?” Evelyn finally whispered, her eyes blown wide. 

“To get you to shut up,” Sherlock admitted, a breathless note in his voice. His hands still cupped her jaw, but the touch was tender now. There a look in his blue eyes that sent a shiver down her spine, but it wasn’t unpleasant. “Why did you kiss back?” 

“I—I—” No excuse came readily to her, and her teeth sank sharply into her lower lip. 

“Elevated pulse, dilated pupils, a flush upon your cheeks,” Sherlock listed off, his mind tugging all the pieces together in a matter of seconds. It was so fascinating to watch him work, but when it was directed at her in this moment—about a secret that she had fought so hard to keep under lock and key—Evelyn felt fear hum through her. “You enjoyed me kissing you.” 

“A momentary lapse in judgment,” Evelyn whispered out. 

“Is it?” His blue eyes gleamed, and flickered back down towards his lips. Oh, he is _tempted_ to prove her wrong, whether it has to do with soothing his own ego or anything deeper, Evelyn knows not. Evelyn pulls away before he has a chance to try, and the column of her throat shudders. She wants to backpedal, to withdrawn, hide from those eyes—eyes that rake across her like coals and see _too_ much. Her stomach seethes violently, and humiliation swelled inside her like an ugly beast, stealing the fleeting joy she felt when he had kissed her. 

_Why am I such a little fool?_ She thought, her eyes scouring her desk for any distraction from the man watching her like a hawk. Her fingers grasped at the papers that she still had to grade, and she drew in a deep breath to steady her thundering heart. “I have papers that I need to attend to. Midterms are coming up and students like to know what grade they have before taking them,” Evelyn stated, her voice would have sounded completely professional if it weren’t for the slight tremble that revealed her nervousness. 

It was a dismissal, and one so painfully obvious that not even Sherlock could dance around it. Though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t ignore it, like most things that he didn’t like. Relief flooded through when Sherlock turned and made his way to the door, but there was also the undercurrent of disappointment she always felt when he left. He came to her when he needed help, and then left out of her life the moment it was done. It made her feel like an outsider looking in on him, and made her feel even more foolish for letting these feelings for him grow in the first place. 

Sherlock paused in front of the door, and peered over his shoulder at her. “I…” He stated, his sonorous voice deep and hesitated. “I do not do well with attachments. I find them often unnecessary complications that do not suit the life that I live. However, it has been proven that the right sort…of attachment can be beneficial more than harmful. I believe that like John that you are a beneficial attachment. You are…what I feel for you is not the same attachment as John, but it is still important.” 

Evelyn felt herself go light-headed for a split second, wondering if this was some sort of fever dream or delusion that she had conjured to make herself feel better. A few second ticked by, and Sherlock was still standing there. It was no trick or illusion, and Evelyn felt her heart clench tight in her chest. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her throat, when the realization that Sherlock had, in his own unique way, just admitted to liking her—not just like, but _like_ like. The prickle of irritation and embarrassment that had crawled across her skin, eased away and she clutched the paper tight in hand. “If it is any consolation,” she said, very carefully and lifted her lower eyes to stare at the man at the door, “I don’t mind being an attachment.” 

The briefest smile flashed across his face, there and gone in the blink of eye. Sherlock Holmes withdrew his gloves from his pockets, and pulled them on slowly. “Saturday around eleven will be a good time for to come over and advise me on my speech,” Sherlock informed her, back to his cool and collected self. “I’ll even have Mrs. Hudson make us some tea and biscuits.” 

“She isn’t your maid,” Evelyn reminded him. “She’s your land lady.” 

Sherlock snorted, underneath his breath. He inclined his head sharply, in a mute good-bye and walked out of the office. The door shut behind him on a whisper and Evelyn sank into her office chair with a heavy sigh. An untold number of emotions careened through her, leaving her drained to the point of exhausted and yet also giddy enough to let out a small giggle. She pressed her face into her hands, biting back a small smile and wondered to herself if she would ever know all there is to Sherlock Holmes. The second she thought she had him figured out, he would do something that tilted her entire world on its axis and admittedly, she was nervous about this change in their dynamics. 

The kiss and the attachment—it couldn’t be taken back, or boxed away. It changed them, even if it was in some small innocuous way. Evelyn chewed on her lower lip, noting that while she was afraid that she also wanted to see where this change would take her. A ping on her cellphone alerted her to a message. She picked it up, and unlocked the screen to find herself staring blankly at the text message. 

_I suppose congratulations on in order given this new development in my brother’s relationship with you. Also I would like to put away such ridiculous notions that I have contract requiring payment of your soul. I leave such business to my HR department. —M. H._

Her brows shot upward, and a cold sensation dripped down along her spine. “How the hell…” Evelyn breathed out, then she shot out of her seat and surveyed her office with wide eyed suspicion. Her gaze darted from the ceilings to the floors, and she hissed between her clenched teeth. “That bastard bugged my office.” 

Being flummoxed by one Holmes brother and enraged at another, it was surely a normal day in the life of Evelyn Masters. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this one shot. It was just an idea that wouldn’t leave me alone. I don’t have any plans to make it a long story at this point in time, but if I wrap up any of my longer stories then I might give it a shot. For now, I am happy with the way it is. :D  
> Author’s Note:  
> I am not a psychologist by any means, but I pieced together the information in this story from interviews, articles done by psychologists. “The Narcissists, the Psychopath, the Sociopath” information I learned from a youtube interview with Ramini Durvasula, PhD from the MedCircle channel. The idea that Sherlock had a form of high function autism came from the BuzzFeedVideo on youtube where psychologist Dr. Ali Mattu watched movies or shows to see how well they portrayed mental illness, and from what he watched of BBC Sherlock, he concluded that Sherlock acted more like someone with autism rather than a sociopath. I learned more about specifically Asperger’s Syndrome from a lot of sources, but the most helpful was an article on brainblogger.com done by Viatcheslave Wlassoff, PHD. While I hope I did the best with the information I have researched, I am not sure I have everything a hundred percent correct so if you want to learn about these subjects, please go look at articles and videos to learn from experts. :D  
> Anyways, I hope that you enjoyed it. Please leave a kudos or comment.


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